


The World Has Gone Mad Today

by OrianDCate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Chaos, Character Death, Dark Harry, Horcruxes, Possession, Slytherin Harry Potter, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrianDCate/pseuds/OrianDCate
Summary: Harry Potter is a freak. He has always been a freak, and he will always be a freak. Harry Potter, in a world he knows he does not belong in, and his desperate attempt to either escape it or end it.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45
Collections: Harry Potter Favs





	1. In Which Uncle Vernon Is Right

I own nothing. Least of all this.

_“The world has gone mad today,_

_And good’s bad today,_

_And black’s white today,_

_And day’s night today…”_

_\- Ella Fitzgerald_

1) IN WHICH UNCLE VERNON IS RIGHT

Harry sat in his cupboard.

I say he sat. It was more of a ‘collapse into himself in a pool of his own blood’. But I guess we can go with ‘sat’.

He had gone to church that day. Uncle Vernon had made sure of it. Usually they left him at home, locked in the cupboard after receiving a proper beating, but today had been special. Today Uncle Vernon had said the minister would have a message that was just for him. Harry had never had anything that was just for him, unless you counted the beatings. Not even Dudley got those.

He had dressed himself up as best as he could, which in his case meant the only pair of Dudley’s shorts he had without a hole in the back, and the only shirt without a burn from the poker under the arms. He had seen the looks people had given him walking into church. He flinched each time they came up to talk to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. He could feel their hatred of him. Uncle Vernon said he deserved to be hated. Uncle Vernon had said that he was a freak. That he had no place in the world.

But Uncle Vernon had said the minister had something just for him. And if someone had something just for him, then there was a place for him, wasn’t there?

Harry had sung along as best he could. He couldn’t read the words, freaks like him didn’t need to learn how to read, but he had copied what Dudley had been singing, and that had seemed to work. Harry had sat when everyone else did, and turned all of his attention to the minister. He had a very nice coat; even Uncle Vernon had said so, with a look that Harry did not understand. The minister turned in a very big book until he had found what he was looking for. Then he had adjusted his glasses, given a few ‘uh-HUM’s, and begun to read.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…”

And then Harry had realized that this was what the minister had had for him.

The rest of the sermon had lain out, quite plainly, exactly why it was that witches and other freaks ought to be killed, and Harry had understood it all. He had even nodded in agreement to parts of it; it made perfect sense to him.

Uncle Vernon had looked happy to see him nodding, so he kept doing it. A happy Vernon meant a less-likely-to-give-a-beating Vernon. He had nodded all the way through the sermon, right up until the singing had begun again. He had forgotten to sing along like Dudley, he was so determined to keep nodding.

After the service was over, Uncle Vernon had driven them home, and they had had dinner. Well, I say they had had dinner. Harry had served them the dinner he had cooked, and he ate the few guts of the chicken the book had said to clean out. After the dinner, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry upstairs, and expounded a great deal upon what the minister had said. Harry had nodded through it all, until he mistakenly nodded right when Vernon had made one of his attempts at sarcasm, which led to one of the worst beatings Harry had ever received.

So there Harry sat in his cupboard.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about what the minister had said, even through the beating. The only thing Harry didn’t understand was why Vernon had beaten him instead of killing him. After all, he deserved to die. Uncle Vernon and the minister had said so. But then Harry remembered all the times before, with the tub, and the rope, and the poker, and Harry realized that that was what made him a freak.

They couldn’t kill him.

That was why they had made sure to explain it to him, why they had made sure that he understood. They might not be able to kill him, but maybe, just maybe, he could kill himself. And they had given him a reason to do it.

Slowly, Harry’s trembling hand moved from the blood it had been laying in and towards a box. A box Uncle Vernon kept specifically in the cupboard because he didn’t “want no poison like that around my Dudley!” Harry should have realized the real reason it was in the cupboard earlier. He was ashamed it had taken so long to figure out. It was so Harry could kill himself in the only way his poor little broken body could manage on its own with no chance of survival.

Harry grasped the box, and slowly tilted the contents out, and down his throat. Hopefully, it would be quick. Then again, freaks like him deserved death. Maybe they deserved to hurt too.

That would explain the beating.


	2. In Which Harry Is In The Wrong Place

I own nothing. Least of all this.

2) IN WHICH HARRY IS IN THE WRONG PLACE  


White.

Harry opened his eyes to white.

Slowly, he pushed himself up off of the…floor?...he found himself lying on. The last thing he remembered was closing his eyes in his cupboard, and waiting.

Waiting for the pain.

The fire.

The black.

Waiting for what he knew he deserved.

But this wasn’t Hell. At least, he didn’t think so. Uncle Vernon had said that Hell was all fire and smoke, always burning. That everyone that went there deserved to burn forever. And no one deserved to go there more than freaks.

But Harry wasn’t burning. And now he was very confused.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to see if what he thought he was seeing was actually what was there. He had had trouble seeing things clearly ever since that one-time Uncle Vernon had used a hammer. But now, looking around, he could see everything perfectly.

Even the baby lying on the ground next to him.

Gingerly, Harry crept towards the baby. It seemed to be sleeping, for now. It was a very ugly baby, but asleep, it looked almost…pitiable?

He was just about to reach out and pick up the child when a very stern, powerful voice came from behind him.

**“YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO BE HERE. EITHER OF YOU.”**

Harry knew it had been too good to be true. This really wasn’t Hell, which was where he, and apparently the baby, belonged.

He turned to see who had spoken, barely managing a glance towards the figure before his eyes flicked downwards out of habit when talking to people bigger than he was. What he managed to glimpse was someone very tall indeed, with a flowing white cloak, and what looked like a long, black stick. The figure’s face was higher than Harry had been able to see.

Harry slumped down as much as he could without crouching. “M’sorry, sir. I didn’t know, sir. I’ll go straight to Hell now, sir, if you could show me how, sir. M’sorry, sir.”

**“HELL? HARRY POTTER, YOU DO NOT DESERVE HELL. AND YOU MOST ASSUREDLY WILL NOT BE JOINING YOUR PARENTS.”**

“My parents, sir? Are they here, sir? Can I see them, sir? I know Uncle Vernon said they were freaks, sir, and I know I’m a freak too, but if they belong here, maybe I can belong here too, sir? Oh, please sir, I’ll do whatever you like, I’ll…”

**“SILENCE, BOY! I MEANT WHAT I SAID. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE. YOU DO NOT BELONG _THERE._ THERE IS ONLY ONE THING TO DO WITH THE BOTH OF YOU: SEND YOU BACK.”**

Harry utterly collapsed at that.

The baby had woken up when the figure had shouted, and was now crying.

“No…no, please, sir…”

**“IT IS WHAT MUST BE. YOU HAVE CAUSED QUITE ENOUGH TROUBLE WITH THIS AS IT IS.”**

“M’sorry sir…please sir, please don’t send me back sir…”

The figure came closer to Harry and reached down.

“No…NO… _NO PLEASE SIR! PLEASE NO! GO AWAY! GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE! PLEASE!_ Please…please just leave me alone…”

Harry curled himself into a ball sobbing.

What Harry failed to notice was that at telling the figure to go away and leave him alone, the figure had vanished in a flash of light, leaving him alone with his crying companion. Eventually, Harry’s sobs died out enough that he was able to hear the cries of the only other person in that place. Harry once more sat up and rubbed his eyes, to dry his tears. He didn’t know where the figure had gone, but he knew it would be back. The figure had said he didn’t belong here, but what he couldn’t understand was why it said he didn’t belong in Hell either. Unless…unless Hell was for normal bad people. If freaks like him had their own Hell…Oh. That was what the Dursleys were. That was why he couldn’t die.

That life _was_ his Hell.

And the Hell for all other freaks like him.

But if that was what it was, then how had his parents gotten into…this place? What had they done to earn it? Because if they had done something to belong here, then maybe he could do something like that too when he…when he got back.

Harry promised himself he would find out all he could about his parents when he got back. Uncle Vernon would hurt him for asking, but that was okay, because freaks deserved to be hurt. But maybe, just maybe, Uncle Vernon would tell him. And if not him, then maybe Aunt Petunia.

The crying that came from beside him broke Harry out of his reverie. Sniffing, Harry wiped his nose on his sleeve, and scooted over to the baby. Gently, he picked up the child, and held it close as best he could. As he did so, he saw that the baby’s eyes briefly flashed red, before going back to their normal color. The baby’s hair and face began to change, slowly turning to match those of Harry.

But the baby kept crying.

Harry began to sing. It was the only song he really knew the words to, a lullaby that he had heard Aunt Petunia sing to Dudley lots of times.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing, momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…”

He kept singing, even resorting to making up verses of his own when he ran out of ones he knew, and eventually, the baby drifted off to sleep. Harry laid down on the floor, still holding the baby close, and soon he was asleep himself. The minute his eyes closed for good, the forms of both Harry and the baby began to glow, and then to fade from sight.

Then, without so much as a sound, they disappeared entirely.

* * *

In a very small box, in a very small morgue, in the very small town of Surrey, England, the body of a very small boy moved.

Its eyes snapped open, staring up at the white ceiling above. One eye killing-curse green, glowing with death. The other eye, glowing with the color of pain, and the color of hate.

Glowing red.


	3. In Which Draco Is Terrified

I own nothing. Least of all this.

3) IN WHICH DRACO IS TERRIFIED

Harry sat in the last compartment on the Hogwarts Express.

It had been a very long few years.

When he had woken up in that morgue, he hadn’t even been able to remember his own name. Not that he had ever known more than his first one. Uncle Vernon had said freaks like him didn’t deserve to have families, and so had never given him the privilege of a last name to pass on.

What Harry had been able to remember, with absolute clarity, was the series of events that led to him waking up where he did. The sermon, the beating, the cupboard, the poison, the white, the figure…all of it. He even remembered the child.

Only now he knew the child’s name.

Voldemort.

That was the name his mind supplied whenever he thought about that small, ugly, pitiful bundle in that cold whiteness. At least, Harry supposed it was his mind. Lately, he wasn’t so sure. He had first noticed things were different upon crawling out of the coffin. Upon standing, and realizing that for the first time in forever, he could do it without his neck hurting, his first thought was “Magical healing”. Despite the fact that it made more sense for the people who worked at the morgue to have fixed it, despite the fact that the white figure could have done it, his mind refused to accept any other logical explanation than “Magic”. The burns from the ropes and pokers were gone, the aches and twists in his arms and legs had vanished.

And that wasn’t all.

He now knew how to read. He knew how to steal without getting caught. He had tried to steal once from Uncle Vernon, but hadn’t gotten away with it. That was the first night Uncle Vernon used the pokers. He also knew about Magic in general. How to find wizards and witches, other freaks like him. And above all, he knew how to kill. Which was something he knew would come in handy later.

It had taken forever, but he had managed to sneak into Diagon Alley. And the first thing he had done was go searching for information on his parents. Which was easier said than done, considering he didn’t even know his own name. The first time someone had asked him to tell it, his mouth had opened and spouted the name “Harry” of its own accord. The more he thought about it, the more natural it seemed, so he stuck with it. But it still didn’t help him find his parents.

Eventually, he began to look for the only name he could truly remember, that of the child. And it was there that he found the answers he was looking for. A book he had stolen revealed that the Dark Lord Voldemort had been defeated many years ago by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and that his parents, James and Lily Potter had died in the attack.

Harry knew his name now. For upon reading that passage, he had instantly passed out, and re-lived the events of that night. But not as himself.

As the other person who survived.

As Tom Riddle, Junior.

Voldemort.

Harry had woken up, and realized that he was now sharing a body. And that there was only one way to stop sharing it. Voldemort had delved into the darkest of magics to avoid Death, something that horrified Harry. After all, freaks like him and Voldemort deserved to…die.

Harry understood then why he had been sent back.

He hadn’t defeated the Dark Lord; his parents had. His parents had been allowed into Heaven because they had fought a truly evil freak, with their own freakishness, and had won. And thus, had given the world a second chance. A second chance Harry knew was running out.

Voldemort was coming back. And Harry was meant to stop him.

To save the world from the freaks that wanted to burn it down.

So, Harry began to look for any freaks that were worth killing, who might support Voldemort if he came back. It was amazing what people would say right in front of children, as if they didn’t exist. As if they couldn’t tell anyone what they had heard.

He also began to look for ways to pay people to kill those smarter, older, and tougher than him that he couldn’t kill himself. He had at first thought that he could simply pass on what he learned to the Magical police, something that Uncle Vernon would have approved of. But after hearing some of the things people said, he had realized that anyone he managed to get arrested wouldn’t go to jail, and would go looking for whoever had told on him. So, killing it would have to be.

Eventually, there was no choice but to go to the Goblins.

They had not reacted the way Harry had been expecting. They had been all too happy to grant him access to his parent’s vault, once it had been explained to Harry that someone named Dumbledore had managed to outmaneuver the Goblins to keep Harry from his gold. Harry had gotten a tremendous headache when Dumbledore was mentioned, but managed to keep his attention on what was being said. The Goblins had then explained that since Harry had died, the access to the Potter Vaults had passed to the next of kin: the descendant of both Harry Potter…and Tom Riddle. Something that Dumbledore could not legally entangle, even if he knew of it.

Harry had promptly taken every coin he could from his trust vault, spent a good deal of it buying ways to hide himself, a good deal more on things he knew he would need for Hogwarts (such as a certain holly and phoenix feather wand), and the rest he squirreled away to spend on information about the freaks that followed Voldemort.

After that, Harry had gone to work, bribing where needed, killing where not. By the time his Hogwarts letter had come, not even the darkest of freaks were willing to walk Knockturn Alley in daytime, much less at night. People such as Jugson, Gibbons, and Fletcher were all long since dead, along with many more like them. But now Harry was off to school, and it would probably begin filling back up again. That was fine, the real head of the snake was at Hogwarts, where not only did most of the dark wizards and witches end up, but where the most hypocritical freak of al time resided: Dumbledore. Someone Harry had added to his list to kill once he learned Dumbledore was responsible for the continued survival of so many dark freaks.

Harry was planning this very deed when the door to his train compartment slid open, and a blonde wizard stuck his head through.

Harry knew who he was, of course. Anyone who spent any amount of time in Knockturn Alley knew who the Malfoys were. They were one of the families Harry had been unable to kill even a single member of, but he had succeeded in making them stay away from other freaks for fear of being targeted. And if evil freaks like them weren’t out and about, then they weren’t causing trouble. And Harry had called that a win.

But now one of them had come to Hogwarts. And Harry intended to make sure the Malfoys paid for that mistake.

Draco Malfoy drawled. “Heard Harry Potter was supposed to be here.”

Harry monotoned a reply. “Harry Potter is dead.”

Draco snorted. “So they say, but they never found the body did they? As if they’d ever trust their precious savior to Muggles. Dumbledore had to have faked it.”

Harry responded in the same dead voice. “You misunderstood me. You don’t have to lose your body to know that you’re dead.”

Draco took a second look at the boy sitting in the compartment, and he paled. Scar on the forehead, dark hair, but it was the eyes that really did the trick. Harry had never been able to make one eye match the other, and so was forced to live with two very different colors shining out of his face.

Draco Malfoy stared into two eyes. One eye blazing the green of Floo fire. Harry Potter’s eye.

And one angry, red eye that promised pain and death to all that saw it.

Draco Malfoy knew exactly who that eye belonged to. He had heard his father speak of it in a tone that clearly laid out exactly what would happen to Draco himself if he were ever to talk of it.

And now it was looking into Draco’s soul.

So Draco did the only thing he could remember from his father’s story that had seemed to work at least somewhat when it came to self-preservation.

He laid flat on the floor of the compartment and begged for his life.

“Please, my Lord, I beg your forgiveness, I must apologize, I should have been aware of your survival far sooner, my Lord I…”

This went on for some time.

Harry had at first been planning to break Malfoy’s neck and toss him out of the window, but the more Draco talked, the more an alternate plan formed in his mind. If he could get at least some of the freaks to believe he was the real Voldemort, then if the real one should come back, then the two sides could perhaps kill each other off, and maybe even catch Dumbledore and Voldemort himself in the crossfire. Harry decided to go with it.

“Rise, Malfoy. This is all part of my plan. You did not truly believe I was vanquished that night? The body of Harry Potter was always my goal, through one form or another. And now, Dumbledore is looking for a lost savior to return and champion his cause. Only for me to take over from the inside. Literally and figuratively. Tell no one what you have seen today; it shall be revealed in time to my followers. For now, I trust only you, and soon, your father with this.”

“The Malfoy family thanks you, my Lord.”

“Now leave me. I have appearances to maintain.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

And Draco left, walking backwards and bowing the whole way.

Now, wasn’t that an excellent way to start the school year, Harry thought to himself.


	4. In Which Dumbledore Is Unprepared

I own nothing. Least of all this.

4) IN WHICH DUMBLEDORE IS UNPREPARED

Dumbledore sat in the Headmaster’s chair in the middle of the table.

For the first time in a very long while, he truly wished not to witness a Sorting. It would only remind him of his failure. Of the plans he had so carefully laid for so many years, just to see them crumble because one family of Muggles had proved smarter than he had anticipated.

Such chaos could not be tolerated. It was for the Greater Good that sooner or later, wizards and witches rule over Muggles. And when they did, Dumbledore would ensure that one group of Muggles in particular got what he thought was just punishment. For they had cost him his savior.

Dumbledore had done all he could to make the Dursleys hate Harry. He had also done all he could to ensure that hatred turned to violence. After all, Harry was practically unkillable while under the mudblood’s protection. Beating him down served a multitude of purposes; setting himself up as a gleaming beacon of hope in young Harry’s life, killing any inclination he might ever have to question orders, even weakening the protection itself to make it the playing ground more level for Tom.

But everything had gone wrong when the Dursleys had had the brilliant idea that maybe, if they couldn’t kill the brat, maybe it could be explained to him in very small words that killing himself would be to everybody’s benefit. Harry had then gone and done exactly that, about ten years too early for Dumbledore’s plans. Oh, at first Dumbledore had assumed that Harry would come back because of the Horcrux. The body disappearing from the morgue before he could retrieve it seemed to support that theory. But then the magical monitoring devices in his office had all stopped working, some even exploding to bits. After that, there was only one more trustworthy place to check: the Hogwarts Book of Students. The Book that sent out every child’s Hogwarts letter on their birthday. And there was not a single Potter listed in it. Nor was there a Black, nor a Peverell, two names to which Harry might have answered. No, it was an inescapable fact.

Harry Potter was dead.

Dumbledore had then been informed by the goblins that he no longer had access to the Potter Vaults, as he was no longer the guardian of the owner. When Dumbledore had attempted to uncover the identity of the new owner, he had been forcibly ejected from the bank, with a warning that the next time he interfered, a new goblin war would not be unlikely.

Dumbledore had picked himself up, sniffled, and then set out to activate his backup plan. Neville Longbottom was the only other person the prophecy could have referred to, and so Dumbledore had done all he could to ensure he was just as beaten down as the Boy-Who-Lived. But now Dumbledore would be forced to gain Neville’s confidence earlier by giving him allowances that would get the boy’s domineering grandmother off his back.

Already Dumbledore could see from across the room how much healthier the boy was looking, carrying a wand that was truly his own and not his father’s. Unleashing a small amount of the boy’s true power was regrettable, but the Light would need a leader after his death, one strong enough to lead others, while also following Dumbledore’s example to the letter. Well, perhaps not to the letter. Perhaps the Longbottom boy would succeed where Dumbledore had failed, and bring the Dark Lord of his time back to the Light.

It seemed that Ronald Weasley, his stooge in Gryffindor, had already gotten his hooks into Neville as instructed. Naturally, this gave Weasley the perfect opportunity to drive away some of the more powerful connections that Longbottom might have made. The Bones heiress and her friend the Abbot girl had already been sorted into Hufflepuff, thus assuring Longbottom would stay under his thumb and no others when he was sorted into…

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Excellent. All according to plan. It was just a shame it had to be _this_ plan.

The important Sorting now over, Dumbledore cast his gaze over to the next set of children he was concerned for: those from Dark Houses. The Malfoy boy was a sad copy of his father, but he had heard of the boy’s brutish and braggart behavior, and thus hoped that perhaps he would join Longbottom in Gryffindor as well. It would be a perfect test case, with Longbottom doing the same as James Potter had done for Sirius Black so many years ago. Dumbledore sighed. No need to dwell on that mistake.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Oh, well. It was too much to hope for. At least the animosity between them would now be under the watchful eye of his Potions Master. Nott followed Malfoy into Slytherin, as well as the Parkinson heiress. It was here the Dumbledore dearly wished for once in his life that he was wrong, and that the next name would on the list would be “Potter”.

But it was not to be. The P’s were over and passed, and now they were on to the R’s. Dumbledore had just begun to relax in his chair again when…

“RIDDLE, HARRY!”

…No. No. It couldn’t be…

Dumbledore watched as a boy with unruly black hair, a pair of sunglasses, and a faded scar on his forehead walked up to the Hat.

He had done it. Tom had done it. He had returned, and blood-adopted Harry Potter. That was the only explanation; only Tom could have arranged things such that not only did Harry die and come back, probably using his Horcrux, but within that short time he was able to seize control of the Potter Vaults from Dumbledore. He had even given the boy a way to protect himself from Legilimency attacks.

Suddenly, the plan to force Neville Longbottom and his DADA professor into an altercation over the Philosopher’s Stone seemed like a very bad idea, if said professor was able to pull off a stunt like this while giving absolutely nothing away. It was a masterful move, one truly worthy of a…

“SLYTHERIN!”

Dumbledore sat in the Headmaster’s seat in the middle of the table.

And for the first time in a very long while, he truly felt fear.


	5. In Which Snape Is Helpful

I own nothing. Least of all this.

5) IN WHICH SNAPE IS HELPFUL

Snape sat down in the chair in front of the Headmaster’s desk, shot back his entire glass of Fire-whiskey, then slammed the empty tumbler down.

“No question about it.” He said hoarsely. “It’s him.”

It took Dumbledore a moment to reply. “…You are sure?”

Snape snorted. “Sure? How could I not be sure? I did as you asked; I looked for an opening to probe his mind. But he never takes those damned glasses off. Not even in his dorm. But while they may block the front of his vision, they leave the sides just a bit open. I glimpsed them, Albus. I saw their color. It is him.”

“And what excuse has Mr. Potter…”

“Riddle.” Snape snapped. “His name is Riddle. He was quite clear on that. Said he didn’t deserve the name Potter. Beyond that, he wouldn’t say.”

“…I see. Well, that is something. Regardless, what excuse did…Mr. Riddle, offer for wearing such glasses at all times?”

“He claimed that an…experience…with his Muggle uncle had left his eyes particularly sensitive to light. That he needs the glasses to not walk around in a state of perpetual blindness. I have examined the effects of the poison he purportedly used to…do what he did. On the rare occasions of survival, blindness is not uncommon to hear of.”

Dumbledore sighed. “And thus he gains not only an excellent excuse to avoid removing them, he provides those around him with proof of the depravity of Muggles. I should not be surprised to see the case of the Dursley’s reopened.”

A sneer crossed Snape’s face. “Good. Azkaban was too good for them. They should have gotten the Kiss.”

Dumbledore gave his Potions Master a look. “Now, Severus, we have discussed this. Your petty desire for revenge on anyone even remotely related to the Potters is something you must learn to restrain. And you know as well as I that it was necessary if young Harry should ever reappear to have those blood wards still waiting for him.”

“Yes, because it’s not like everything that you have deemed ‘necessary’ so far hasn’t come back to bite you in the…”

“Severus! Control yourself! Now, what have been the reactions of Mr.…Riddle’s dorm-mates.”

“Varied. Nott is uncertain, Crabbe and Goyle are eager to please. But it is Mr. Malfoy that interests me the most.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“He seems terrified of Harry. Almost as if he has been ordered by his father to do all he can to stay on his good side. You yourself suggested that the boy had been blood-adopted by…Riddle. To perform a blood-adoption, Riddle would have needed at least half of his soul. Quirrell could not have done it; he has not enough of Riddle in him. The name on the Sorting list would have been the same as the man he is possessing. Who is the only person you know that possesses that much of it in one spot? If the Malfoy’s have been playing host to the Dark Lord returned in secret, then they would be able to see first-hand what happens to those that angered Riddle’s heir.”

“…I had not considered that, Severus. You have raised a most disturbing point. But more disturbing to me, is this: if the Dark Lord’s Horcrux has truly been absorbed into a new body, then it could have been walking amongst us for the past few years, and none of us the wiser. Severus, I fear I shall be tied up a good deal with this investigation. I shall have to look into new players that have recently come on the scene, as well as any suspicious incidents that can now be seen under a new light.”

“…You are thinking of Knockturn Alley.”

“Of course. So many good wizards and witches, perhaps just a tad misguided. All lost. As well as the services they were able to render. You probably feel more than I the loss of certain potions suppliers who were perhaps a bit indiscriminatory to whom they sold certain things.”

“And you think that this is the work of the Dark Lord? It would strain credulity at that. One would think that the Dark Lord would wish Knockturn alive and thriving, not dead and shuttered.”

“Who can say how the mind of Tom has fallen into insanity during his years trapped without a body? Perhaps he would rather deny us any advantage at all, rather than let us both make use of the market. It is a strategy I believe the German Muggle was particularly fond of in the last war.”

“One no doubt whispered in his ear by Grindelwald.”

Dumbledore’s eyes lost their twinkle at that. He was silent for a good while. Finally, he stirred, and slowly replied. “…No. No, I do not think so. Grindelwald…may have been many things, but even he…had limits.”

Snape knew perfectly well that was the old man’s regret talking. Grindelwald had been even worse than Riddle. Snape knew; he had seen the evil wizard’s victims, Muggle and magical. And it was most assuredly not Hitler that had ordered the Final Solution. But it was not worth arguing over. It would merely be more of the same that had been going on between Headmaster and Potions Master for years.

Snape thought it best to turn the conversation back to the original topic. “And, with you no doubt entangled in Ministry dealings, I presume I am to keep an eye on young Harry?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Test him. See what he has learned in the Dark Lord’s care. We cannot do anything about his connection to the Malfoys, but we can drive a wedge between him and the rest of his classmates. Perhaps use his mother’s muggle-ness, if all else fails. This must be done, Severus.”

Snape made a little bow in his chair. “I understand, Headmaster.”

“Now, you had best be getting back to your snakes. I bid you a good night, Severus.”

“And you, Headmaster.”

As Snape made his way to the dungeons, he resolved to ignore each and every one of Dumbledore’s instructions.

He had made a very tiny, little lie to the Headmaster. The only one he was willing to risk, knowing how skilled the old man was at Legilimency. He had indeed seen Harry’s eyes, and he had indeed seen their color. He had left it up to the imagination of the Headmaster to fill in that they were the same color as Lily’s. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Snape had seen burning red eyes like that in only one other person. His true master.

He had never believed Dumbledore when the old fool had proclaimed that Riddle had killed Lily, and was then promptly struck down when his killing-curse that followed had been reflected by Harry. It had always made more sense to Severus that Lily had stood aside, Riddle had spared her life, but when he had attempted to kill the child, Harry had indeed reflected the spell…into his mother. The resulting death of Lily Potter would have activated the Unbreakable Vow that Riddle had given Snape, striking him dead on the spot. Or, it would have, had the man not made Horcruxes.

One of which had been lodged in Harry that night.

And, if Snape was not mistaken, was now living and breathing in the corpse of Harry Potter.

The one person that Snape had blamed more than any other for the death of his Lily, and the Dark Lord had done what he set out to do to him. It had taken him years, true, but the deed was done. As far as Snape was concerned, Harry Potter could rot in Hell.

Harry Riddle, however, Snape would do his best to protect and serve. His true master had returned, wearing the face of true victory. Quirrell was a puppet compared to him. It mattered not if the diary Lucius held contained more of the Dark Lord; that version of Riddle had not kept a promise made years ago. All other versions of Riddle would pay for failing to save his Lily. But this one, this one would live. For giving Snape his revenge.

For the first time in a very long while, Snape had a spring in his step as he walked.


	6. In Which Greengrass Is Mistaken

I own nothing. Least of all this.

6) IN WHICH GREENGRASS IS MISTAKEN

Daphne Greengrass knew exactly what was going on.

At first, she had sneered when what she thought was a mudblood had been sorted into the House of the pure. Slytherin was for the select few, the powerful. Something everyone knew mudbloods were not.

But then she had remembered. Half-forgotten whispered conversations between her father and his friends. Lord Greengrass may have been officially neutral in the last war, but only to give the Dark Lord a means of communication with the enemy should he ever need it. Most of the business the Greengrass family had conducted then had been solely for the benefit of the Death Eaters. And as all good businessmen do, Lord Greengrass had looked quite closely at the records of his…business partners.

And it was one of these partners that Daphne remembered. A man whose first name she had never heard, and only the barest mention of his last. A man so powerful that even Lord Greengrass had done all he could to avoid angering him. The only other man to do that had been the Dark Lord.

Harry was not the first Riddle to come to Hogwarts.

Daphne had gone looking for information. In the end, it was easier than she had expected to find it. Sorted into Slytherin, Head Boy, an award for Special Services to the school, not bad for a mudblood. And then Daphne had done something she had thought was nothing, but began to believe was, in fact, everything:

She had put the pictures of Harry Riddle and Tom Riddle side by side.

No resemblance. None at all. They couldn’t look more different if they tried. And so Daphne began listing off the differences between them, right down to the last detail.

Right down to the faded scar on Harry’s head that was barely visible in a photograph.

And Daphne Greengrass realized exactly what had happened to Harry Potter all those years ago, when his death had been the most talked about thing since that of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter had lived, yes, but only because he had been found before that Muggle filth could finish the job. He had been found, adopted, and raised by one of the darkest wizards of all. By the man Daphne was coming to believe had been the Dark Lord’s spymaster, judging by how all trace of him after Hogwarts had been erased. By Tom Riddle himself.

It had, of course, only taken her a day to put all of this together.

And by the end of the second day of term, her owl and her deductions were both in the hands of her father. Within the week, anyone who had been anyone during the last war had begun preparing for the return of their Lord. For if he had been up until now hiding in the shadows, training the Boy-Who-Lived to be his successor, then surely not even Dumbledore could stop them now. They sent owls to their Heirs, ordering them to get as close to Po…Riddle as they could. Anything the boy said, they were to take as law. And above all, they were not to anger him. And so, their position made clear, they waited anxiously for the summons they knew would eventually come.

Daphne, of course, knew only what her parents had instructed her. And so she arranged for a meeting between herself and Potter, with Draco Malfoy as intermediary. The Malfoy family had a standing marriage contract between Draco and the youngest Greengrass, Astoria, and the fact that Potter had apparently trusted young Draco enough to trust him with the truth of his upbringing even before Hogwarts ensured he would be the perfect neutral party in…negotiations.

For that was what Daphne intended to conduct. If Tom Riddle had truly been the Dark Lord’s spymaster, then Potter would surely share his love of information. Information the Greengrass had in plenty. And, who knows? Perhaps it could eventually lead to a consort agreement, with Daphne able to keep the Greengrass name alive.

The possibilities were endless.

Once Professor Snape had provided them with a secure location (being the Slytherin Head of House meant he had to be party to all meetings of this sort, and the man was anxious to see his Lord begin to make new connections), the true business began.

Daphne had opened with the standard pitch, making it clear exactly what Potter stood to gain from an alliance with the Greengrass family. She entirely missed the way Draco’s face went deathly pale at the mention of the name Potter, and had forged ahead, offering insight, advice, and perhaps later, other services. But it was only when she began suggesting things the Greengrass family might receive in exchange for such help that she heard the whimpering from Draco, looked to see him cowering in the corner, and then back to Potter, that she realized exactly how badly she had just messed up.

Darkness seemed to radiate from the boy. The shadows in the room seemed to grow behind him. Suddenly, Daphne found she could no longer breathe, as she was lifted three feet in the air by pure magic.

Harry growled. “So. This is what the elite of the world has become. Caring only for their names, titles, favors, and…services. Draco, you led me to believe that the Greengrass family was one of the smarter ones still in existence.”

Draco groveled on the floor. “Please, my Lord, she does not know to whom she speaks. If you were to show her, I am sure she would do all she could to please you, my Lord.”

“…Very well, Draco. I must apologize to your father for this later. I had intended to make him the second party to learn the truth.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. The fact that the Dark Lord trusted his family enough to have them be the first witnesses to his return was a great honor. But when had the Dark Lord ever apologized for anything? And so he sat in silence as Harry slowly reached up, and removed his glasses.

Daphne’s eyes widened as she stared into two burning eyes, practically shining with magic. The one on her left seemed to radiate death, and the end of all things. But it was the one on the right that told her just how deeply in trouble she was.

It promised power to those that should follow, but pain and agony to those that should fail, in the angry red glow that only one wizard had ever possessed.

Tom Riddle had not rescued and raised Harry Potter because he was the Boy-Who-Lived. He had rescued and raised him to be the vessel for the return of the Dark Lord. And he had succeeded.

Harry Potter’s body was now the vessel for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, trained in every Dark Magic available, and doubtless in Slytherin values.

It made sense. The only person that could have ever beaten the Dark Lord, aside from Dumbledore, was someone who could become a Dark Lord himself. And _he_ had attacked the Potters that night to eradicate the only other threat to his power. But he had failed. And now the more powerful version of him stood in front of her, ready to end her life.

“I shall now tell you, _Heiress_ Greengrass, exactly what I am here for. I am not here to fix this world; I am here to end it. I am not here to build a new order; I am here to burn the old one. What you have offered me is insulting; what you have asked for in return is disgusting. The last of the Potters are dead. Soon, all who stand in my way shall follow. Once I have done what I have set out to do, I shall wash my hands of this world, and leave it to those who saw what I was doing, and believed in it. So tell me, _Heiress_ Greengrass, will you follow? Or will you burn?”

The pressure on Daphne’s throat disappeared. She would have whimpered; had she not been wracked with a coughing fit from the lack of air.

“Your answer, Greengrass.”

The raspy reply came. “ _Follow.”_

“Say it again.”

_“Follow!”_

“Once more.”

_“FOLLOW! FOLLOW!”_

“…Excellent. From now on, you are to be my eyes and ears. Draco shall be the sword I wield against the enemies to my front, and you shall be the shield to protect me from those at my back. Count yourself lucky, Greengrass. You are now in the perfect position to slip a knife between my ribs. And while all that would accomplish would be to incur my wrath, it would still be your end. Am I clear?”

_“…Perfectly, my Lord.”_

“I shall give you the same orders I have given Draco; in public, or in private, you are to refer to me as Riddle. Eventually, Draco shall earn the honor of addressing me by my given name in the public sphere. You are never to address me as your Lord; these walls can have ears. The only reason Professor Snape even knows of this meeting is because he is Draco’s godfather, and as such Draco has vouched for him. Perhaps, in time, he may become privy to what was revealed here. Now, you are free to go. Learn all. Pass on what is important. And tell no one the truth of today’s meeting.”

_“I will, my…Riddle.”_

With that, Harry dropped Daphne to the floor, and strode out of the room. Draco slowly made his way over to where Daphne had fallen, and gently helped her to her feet.

_“…Draco…what have we done?”_

Draco’s mouth settled into a thin line. “We’ve survived. And sometimes, that’s all we can hope for from _him.”_


End file.
